


Forget-me-not.

by werewolve



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Professors, Destiny, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fate & Destiny, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Not Canon Compliant, Other, Other Witchers Named, Oxenfurt (The Witcher), Oxenfurt Academy (The Witcher), Post-Canon, Professor Jaskier, Slow Build, Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-14 17:33:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29299713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/werewolve/pseuds/werewolve
Summary: Master Jaskier, perhaps to some known as Dandelion, returns to lecture full time at Oxenfurt following the events of his travels with one certain Witcher. Not at all by chance, they meet again, after six years have passed in total. For both, a lot has happened, and a lot is still to happen.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 9
Kudos: 80





	Forget-me-not.

**Author's Note:**

> It's been almost a year since I last wrote anything for the Witcher, but this January I found myself quite caught up in love for it again. So this fic somewhat very loosely follows a post-TV idea I had, whilst incorporating some of the content of Blood of Elves in a not at all canonical way. 
> 
> I'm a little rusty on fic writing, so bear with me, but please enjoy.

‘And that… I believe,’ The lecturer spoke, wiping away the remnants of the chalk notes from the board before him, before giving a swift turn on his heel to face the class, ‘Is all for the day. You may leave. I’ll be here for a short while to answer any remaining questions.’

He grinned, and watched as the class of around forty descended into chatter, and the clattering of books and things being packed away. The familiar green robes were pulled from the backs of seats and slung back onto shoulders in a rather careless fashion, to be adjusted just before the door in order to not be disciplined in the halls. Setting about clearing away his own things, he turned his attention to the lectern and shuffled papers back into one neat pile, picking up an old leather satchel with which he carried them around. The scuffle of feet got closer.

There were two girls at first, he saw their shoes before anything else, but in a hushed voice a goodbye was said and one of them turned for the door at the last second. The other he met the gaze of kindly. 

‘Master Jaskier, is it okay to speak with you?’

‘Of course, it always is.’ He sat down against his desk, an air of comfort and a casual nature about him. A hand pushed back silver and brown streaked hair and he gestured for the young girl to continue. 

‘Thank you.’ She smiled, tugging at one of her sleeves to adjust it, ‘You see I had a question but not particularly about class, it’s of a rather personal nature. About your work, actually.’ 

‘Oh?’

‘Yes. Well…’ The girl rocked slightly on her feet, and then all at once seemed to muster enough confidence for the both of them, ‘You traveled, correct? For a number of years? With the… the witcher, the White Wolf. What was it like, to see the worst parts of the Continent?’

‘Ah.’ Jaskier’s posture changed almost immediately, shoulders falling to a slump and head cocking to one side in a defeated sort of way, ‘Now that… that I don’t tend to talk about. The White Wolf, that is. It’s true he was my muse for quite some time, and I will say my travels were a curiosity I would both recommend and warn others of.’ 

‘Warn?’

He nodded slowly, ‘There are sights a person is better off not seeing- even if those sights might better our work. I watched people die, in the most gruesome ways, I would not wish those moments on anybody here.’

‘Not even on the worst Nilfgaardian soldier?’ She too cocked her head, curious and enticed.

He laughed, a slip in the suddenly dark mood, ‘I suppose that is a different matter. Still, may I ask what brought you to that question?’

‘Of course. I just think your ballads of the time were splendid. You were so well known, at the height of fame, and then you traded it all so suddenly to return here instead. Did you run out of inspiration?’

‘Something like that.’ He pushed himself to stand, paced back to his bag, flicked through the papers in there carefully. One, crumbled and old and wine stained, found his grasp, and he held it out to the student. ‘I think Oxenfurt is a simply wonderful place, one day I might retire here too. Or perhaps I’ll go to a quiet coast. I did not lose inspiration, but inspiration did lose me.’ 

The student tentatively reached out, taking the paper between two fingers as if it were too important for her hand. Across it were words, some legible and some not. Alongside scrawls and sharp ink scratches and large blots of both black and red. It appeared to be a ballad, or a simple poem. Something short and unfinished. For lack of context somebody might believe it to be a bad case of writer's block, by this point in the conversation the girl knew a slight amount better enough to not consider that a possibility. Jaskier so rarely got writer’s block anyway, even without a muse, and now she knew well at least one version of what might have happened. Confirmed by a carefully written line in which the only visible words were ‘gorgeous garroter’. 

‘Her Sweet Kiss.’ The girl mumbled quietly, and Jaskier nodded. 

‘In its early stages. In the time it was supposed to end rather differently.’ 

She handed back the page, as though she might taint the memories that coated it with her own if she held it any longer, and it was her turn to give a knowing nod, ‘It’s a famous ballad.’ 

‘It is. And one of my last.’

‘Before you came here.’

‘Before I came here.’ He affirmed, a light smile returning to his lips, ‘Sometimes, things are best left to memories. To be remembered for their famous ballads, rather than for what they actually were. Poetry is a subjective, flimsy, fantastical thing. I recommend you take others poetry with a grain of salt, and supplement your own with enough to conceal the truth of it.’

‘Lie?’ 

‘Indeed.’ He closed the bag and tied it shut, closing off once again the pain that it contained so well, closing off the peace he had already made with it all. ‘Lie beautifully. And when the time comes that you decide to tell the truth, do that beautifully too. There is a great power in beauty. There is a great power in knowing when to pause.’ 

‘Then you’re telling the truth, or you’re paused?’ She seemed to vaguely understand, something Jaskier was thankful for, as he had a bad habit of using all the wrong language when he hadn’t readily rehearsed it first. 

‘Both, I suppose.’ The lecturer, slinging his satchel over his shoulder, did one final check of the room, and gestured for the girl to walk towards the door, ‘Paused. Poised. Something similar.’ 

She understood this too, walking to the exit alongside her teacher. At the door, she bowed, and thanked him for his help. He gave a slight bow back to her, a sign of respect for her confidence, and nodded for a final time. 

Jaskier had been back in Oxenfurt for around four years, nearing closer to five. Not a short while after he had completed that ballad for which the discussion had just surrounded, he went on one final tour of the Continent. Singing it and a few other ballads to anybody who would listen. He took on an apprentice, sang of witchers and sorceresses and princesses. Sang of Nilfgaard and the War and Sodden. Watched attacks, watched deaths, watched people and was paid for it. His life was a turmoil of emotions and the never ending evil of this place he had been forced to live in. And then one day it all just seemed to click into place. He said his goodbyes to his apprentice, to the few fans who lingered around wherever he moved on to. Packed his notes, clothes, belongings and lute into bags and crates. Got on his mount, fitted with a wagon for pulling, and made off for here. For Oxenfurt. 

His haven.

He adored Oxenfurt for all it could give. The Academy, in all its glory, surrounded by a bustling cityscape of sales people and students and those lucky enough to retire here. He found solace in old friends, old teachers, the familiar walls and corridors of the school he used to so often frequent. 

It took him no time at all to convince the sitting Chancellor to offer him a more permanent position at the school. All here knew him well, knew of how much his students loved him and of how much he had been loved even as the lazy and unmotivated student he was in his early academy days. He won over all simply with his presence, with that glowing, unending energy he seemed to exude. And what better way to draw new attention to the aging academy than with the famous Jaskier, close friend of the White Wolf, renowned bard in all four quarters of the Continent and perhaps even further so. He was a welcome addition indeed, and he was happy for it. Here he could get away, refocus his attention, heal in a way that promised productivity and the ability to help others too. Here he could be himself and not think twice of it. 

So he spent his days over the last four years as a professor once more. He aged in peace, lectured by day, and by night sat down in his own personal library with a cup of something warm and tart by a fresh wood fire. It was a simple life, extravagant in comparison to some but lacking in the light of others. Where in his youth he would have been a frequent visitor to the Rosebud, he now more often visited the local bakeries for a far different kind of treat. He rode his gelding through the streets, said his hellos to the merchants who stayed put for more than a few days, teased his students about their after school activities and most of all- enjoyed himself heartily. He dressed well, never smelled of anything besides lavender and oranges, and kept up his usual chipper outer appearance even on the bad days. 

He thought of the past, of course. Often. It came to him in dreams, more frequently in nightmares, and even sometimes in the flesh. Yennefer passed by rarely, but often enough that she managed to catch Jaskier once or twice. She was kind to him, never too harsh. She thanked him for his time and they both acknowledged she was thanking him for much more too. He thanked her in return. Their meetings were brief, fleeting, and never mentioned anything but their present duties. Yennefer spoke of the ills and boredom of Aerdin, Jaskier the stresses and delights of Oxenfurt. They both promised to visit the other for a longer time, an empty promise with the express purpose of thinly veiled therapy for them both. Where they could not seek strength in others, they sought it in a new and budding friendship. Even if that friendship was kept at a further distance than a plagued man from the rest of his family. 

Others from Jaskiers past popped in and out of Oxenfurt too. Some never stopping for more than a polite greeting, some attempting conversation and seeming to fail at it fast. 

He blamed none of them; understood all of them.

There was even, more than once, the familiar flash of white hair. 

It never lingered long enough for him to see to whom it belonged. He convinced himself many times it was just an elder, another professor, some passing by healer he’d never met and would never meet. And then sometimes he could not convince himself, because the white hair stuck out too much. Or looked too right, too wrong, too much like a memory. 

He knew the day may come when it got closer to him, rather than further away. That with its air of familiarity could come a face he recognised. He thought he might like for that meeting to happen, but knew it an unlikely wish. For Geralt had chosen to leave him behind that day, the witcher had chosen isolation. There was little to nothing, no rhyme or reason for why- in that case- he might choose to return. Why he might be here, in Oxenfurt, for anything other than yet another hunt. Another job. Another reason to shut off his humanity and treat the world like one large rat infested tavern in which he served as the head mouser- the exterminator. 

This, at the least, was what Jaskier told himself as he walked from his lecture hall towards the arch where the figure stood. 

He was talking to another professor, Linus Pitt, who seemed quite enthused by whatever topic they were discussing. And whose face turned almost immediately sympathetic in the most sour of ways as he caught sight of Jaskier approaching. It’s no use keeping it any kind of secret as to who Pitt was talking to. If it was yet to be clear enough, he was having a rather animated discussion with one Witcher, one White Wolf, presumably about some species or another he had recently discovered. Or rediscovered. Pitt turned to Jaskier quickly, greeted him with a simple slow lowering of his chin. 

‘Ah, Master Jaskier, I was just about to take our guest here to your theatre. Has your lecture ended already?’ 

Jaskier paid no mind to Linus, did little to glance his way, his eyes were fixed on those yellow ones- which looked back at him with too great an ease, ‘Yes, yes. Well we got through things more quickly than I was expecting. Sharp minds, those kids, though they ask too few questions.’

‘Is it wrong to be so sure of oneself?’ Linus asked, coughing just slightly at the end of his sentence. A methodical clearing of his throat that finally tore the former bard’s gaze to him, ‘To know that you know?’

‘In my professional opinion, yes. All study is theory, and all theory is subject to change. The arts are not excluded from such a notion. Questions, questioning, they are the art of Philosophy, and they should not only be welcomed- but encouraged.’ 

The professor of Natural History nodded, understanding, ‘I see. You are as eloquent as ever.’

Jaskier, in spite of himself, smiled, ‘As I so often try to be.’ 

‘Quite so.’ Another nod, an odd shuffle of feet, Jaskier was not quite so oblivious as to not notice the rancid awkward air to the current situation, ‘Well-’

‘Well, you seem to have introduced me to the guest even despite not reaching my door, Master Linus. I thank you, and you’re free to attend to whatever else you might need to.’

‘Aha, yes, of course.’ He turned back to the Wolf, smiled, ‘Thank you for your conversation Geralt, and for your wisdom, Master Jaskier. I must return to my class.’

He received only a pair of hums in unison. A bow from his fellow professor. No more than a nod from their guest. 

And then there fell a silence once more. An odd silence, one that shouldn’t have existed. University halls are always a busy place. Ones so close to the gardens even more so. It should have been loud, a messy sea of conversation and laughter and music. Instead there was nothing but a slight ringing in Jaskier’s ears. He was too focused, too beside himself. He did not meet the other’s gaze again as he spoke. 

‘I was just on my way back to my quarters, you may follow if you wish to speak to me, but I must go back there to put these papers somewhere safe.’ 

He spoke with a firm, assertive voice. For here was his territory, here was his grounds. He was the apex predator, the witcher the invasive species. It mattered to him very little how Geralt responded, he set off walking before such a thing could even be thought about nevermind voiced. So this would be the day, he thought slowly. This would be that time he saw the face again. He was at peace with that. He had mulled over Geralt’s motives time and time again, thought of and questioned his decision night after night spent alone in another tavern or inn. In the end he found a million explanations, in the end he went with none of them. He wondered if Geralt would explain. Whether he’d pick from that bunch. Whether he’d finally understand fully why he was shoved aside. 

In reality, he already knew well. And like all others he had not blamed, he did not blame the witcher either. 

He knew too well now the venom of emotions, how it seeped into every cell, how it caused people to react. He knew that Geralt had not felt too little, but too much on that day. That he had been overwhelmed. He knew too that it was no excuse, that he readily expected an apology for it. He knew that apology would likely not come in the form of the word sorry. He was ready to take it in whatever other way it manifested. 

Because he did not blame Geralt, who had meant so much to him and to whom he had meant so much in return. He did not blame him and would never do so. 

He continued to smile as they walked. 

The old door pushed open with a creak, one that he remarked he really ought to fix, one that finally got him an audible response which this time he left room for. 

‘A little oil does the hinges well.’

‘Hm. Correct, I’ll have to stop by the market for some.’ He placed his bag on a small table towards the side of the room, used a key attached by a string to his hip to open up a drawer and worked to pluck the earlier papers from his bag to lay them neatly inside the cabinet, ‘After I’ve finished grading all of this, that is.’ 

‘An endless task, I’m guessing.’

‘And guessing correctly.’ The witcher hovered strangely, and he shook his head at it, waving his hand towards the armchairs close to the fire, ‘Sit, please. And help yourself to the wine.’

Geralt obliged, dumping his muddied self into one of the ornate chairs and stretching out his feet towards the warmth like a cat might. Jaskier noted the action, the comfort about it, and after dusting himself off decided to take the other seat for himself. A silence fell again, for only a short time. The crackle of the hearth and the whistle of a slight wind through a cracked window the only noises beside deep breaths. Then, this time, Geralt spoke first.   
‘How long has it been?’

‘Four years. Here at least. Almost five. Making it around six since that day.’ 

‘Six years. It feels longer.’ The remark was odd, coming from a witcher, for whom six years was more like a few months in terms of their lifetimes. ‘You’ve been well? You seem well.’

‘I am. I have been for some time now.’ Jaskier nodded. Poured himself a glass of wine despite Geralt not taking up his offer. ‘I was not always.’

‘No. I didn’t expect so.’ 

The air was solemn, it hung heavy. It felt wrong and suffocating. Neither seemed to enjoy it, neither knew quite how to escape it. 

‘Your hunting? Ciri?’

‘Both have been as expected. Complicated but persevering. Always new monsters to hunt, always new questions to answer. New training steps to overcome. But Ciri is almost entirely independent now, she needs neither me nor anybody else. Though she still returns to Kaer Morhen each winter.’

‘And you?’ The professor sipped his drink, letting out a breath he had not realised he’d been holding, ‘Do you winter there still?’

‘Yes, every year now.’ 

‘Ah. That’s good, I’m sure the others are glad for your more consistent presence.’

‘Hm. All but Lambert, who seems more annoyed by me every year.’ Geralt scoffed, settling, ‘Though as siblings go I suppose that’s more normal than anything else. You should see the way he and Eskel quarrel.’

There. Right there. It had begun. The apology which would never be said outright. Jaskier was being included in Geralt’s thoughts about his family. He smiled, ‘I’m sure it’s a sight to behold.’ 

That simple smile seemed enough to soothe most of the tension which poisoned the atmosphere, as both men relaxed quite soon after it came. Not wholly, as neither could ever wholly relax in this moment, but enough for it to feel once more like old times. Better times. Before the storm which pushed them apart, and before Nilfgaard too. Geralt reached for the wine now, pouring himself a glass deeper than Jaskier’s one. They talked at length about their lives; Geralt about his training Ciri, Jaskier about his teaching. The witcher remarked that being a professor suited Jaskier in an odd sort of way, joked about it being good for him to have a captive audience. The old bard joked back, quipping at Geralt’s new scars and about the beard he had let grow long. 

They spoke of the years passed as though they had been together for all of them. Or as though they were old friends catching up after a long time. That last one, really, was partially accurate. They were old, they were catching up. But more than that they were falling back into step, they were accepting defeat. Both had tried to fight against the current, that great thing called destiny, which urged them together- and both had ultimately failed. They were always meant to cross paths, and they were never meant to be separated for this amount of time. 

The ties that bound them were of many a different kind. Trauma, lust, destiny, determination, and perhaps most strongly, love. 

There was no denying there was a love between those two old companions. One that settled their woes, healed their wounds, scrubbed them down of all the dirt of their long lives. One that allowed them to apologise and forgive silently, one that allowed them to know when it was time to break and time to heal. One that had kept Jaskier hopeful for Geralt’s return, and had kept Geralt visiting Oxenfurt for the many years that had passed. 

They were a pair of opposites, and yet at heart they were too similar. 

Jaskier laughed once more. 

‘Come, come, I should give you the grand tour.’ He exclaimed, rising to his feet and beckoning the witcher to follow.

‘Jaskier, I have studied here before, you know.’

‘You have?’ He searched for the signs of humour and found none, and all at once his eyes grew wide and that smile which stretched his features grew with them, ‘No! Really? Great Gods, Geralt of Rivia a scholar. Who on earth would have guessed!’ 

‘It was only a few lectures, a couple of basic courses. But I know the campus.’ 

‘Ah but you don’t know it like I do. Come, I promise you will not be disappointed.’ 

The lecturer hardly waited, grabbing Geralt by the hand as soon as he stood and pulling him out into the corridor. By now it was mid evening, the stars twinkled overhead and the grounds were for the most part quite empty. It was a working day, and most students bar those rebellious few would be back in their dormitories preparing for tomorrow's set of classes. Jaskier pulled his companion along, down the winding staircase, out into the courtyard. And he did not stop there. 

The yard was laid out with bushes, some ornate, flowering, and decorative. Some maze like, twisting through the seemingly never ending grounds to areas for sports, for classes, or for the hiding spot the former bard took the witcher to now. See, Jaskier, in his time as a student at this very academy, had been incredibly intelligent, and also incredibly lazy. He had skipped his lecturers most days, and as a result had found all the best hiding spots to ‘laze’ (often in the company of another student) without being caught. Some of those spots still remained unfound today, the one he rushed to now was one of them. He felt young again, like a teen avoiding being caught, as he rounded corners and ducked behind walls. Geralt followed ever obediently, amused and almost delighted by how much like the young Jaskier he once knew the professor was currently acting. 

They walked for a few more minutes, stifling a short laugh at Geralt- the mighty witcher- flinching over breaking a twig. It was safe to say he too felt young again, like the lad he had been once, sneaking around the grounds of Kaer Morhen with his brothers. Trying rather desperately to not be caught by the ever too vigilant Vesemir. 

Then all at once Jaskier stopped, and Geralt in a matter of moments went from concern to awe as he looked at the small garden before them. Behind a large set of hedges, where they stood, was a marble gazebo. It was clearly aged, cracked in various places, with large vines of ivy wound around all but one of its pillars. Around it were various flowers, which Jaskier quietly explained had been put there by him- as he’d wanted to keep the place looking pretty for his visits. His visits alone. For he had never brought a guest here before, this had been the only spot which was solely and completely his. Now, in his old age, it had become more lonely than it was peaceful. And in his silent acceptance of Geralt’s apology, he was offering it to him. 

The witcher was taken aback. Near overwhelmed again. 

Only this time, instead of pushing, he pulled. He pulled at Jaskier’s hand, pulled him closer. Not quite into a hug- not yet, he respected that the time had not come for that yet- but close enough for their shoulders to touch, and for him to look into Jaskier’s eyes as he had done earlier. And the bard squeezed at his own hand in return, a small gesture of reassurance, then pulled too. Pulled them to the gazebo, coaxed Geralt to sit. Pointed out constellations to him and had Geralt describe their meanings, as he learned quickly that one course the witcher had taken in his time here was astronomy. They laughed again, but softer this time. Quietened by the nighttime, by the need to remain unfound, by the desire to be gentle. 

And something changed in them both. The glow of youth meeting the wisdom of years passed in this place. 

‘Would you forgive me?’ Geralt said, aloud and perfectly. 

‘I already have.’ Jaskier responded.

And suddenly all was spoken, not silent, and it was unlike them- but it would become the very basis of what made them. What made their ‘them’, their ‘us’. 

‘Why?’ Geralt asked. And after Jaskier simply shook his head, he pressed, ‘You said earlier that questions are good, I believe answers are good too.’

The professor hummed, closed his eyes for a moment, and then placed his hands neatly in his lap, ‘Because I know your past, I know your character. I know you did not intend what you ultimately did, but I know that it hurt me no less.’

‘That does not sound like a road to forgiveness.’

‘It doesn’t, does it? And it wasn’t, at first. I’m sure you’ve heard the ballad. I was quite angry. Still, I couldn’t stop the feelings. The wanting. I wanted to understand it, I wanted to forgive it, I wanted you back. So I spent night after night thinking about it, until I’d thought about it in second by second frames. And I tired of thinking. I didn’t want to do that anymore.’

‘So you stopped.’ 

‘So I stopped. And I came to a conclusion, and now here we are.’

‘And where are we, Jaskier?’ Geralt asked that with a twang of deep emotion to his voice, with a sweetness that melted the words. Melted Jaskier’s name. 

‘Back to where we were, Geralt,’ The bard said, ‘Back to the wanting. Back to Posada. We were strangers for a little while, and now we’re not again.’ 

‘Now we’re friends?’

Jaskier laughed. Not a harsh laugh, not a mocking one, a sincere and thoughtful laugh. A small huff of air that curled his lips. ‘Is that the first time you’ve called us that?’

Geralt smiled back, ‘I think it is. And it’s strange.’

‘Because we’re not friends?’

‘Because we’re not friends.’

A tear broke the corner of Jaskier’s eye, rolled down over the apple of his cheek, and caught just under the bone. The stars above him blurred, turned to a mass of shattered lights amidst the darkness. And he let the sob leave his lips, not caring for how it caught terribly in his throat on its way out. The statement had not been meant in any negative way, but that is exactly what had broken him. Years of not knowing, and now it was all there- in the open, spoken as if it had been obvious this entire time. Geralt acknowledged that the teacher needed his moment, and remained quiet, offering only the weight of his hand and the brush of his thumb over Jaskier’s thigh. But that too was too heavy for him. That too made the water sting further his cheeks, made his nose all stuffy and itchy.   
They were not friends. They never had been. 

In the beginning, Jaskier had been a thorn in Geralt’s side. Then he had been the balm that had soothed it. He had been his barker, as he said he would be. Geralt in return had been his muse. They had seen the entire Continent together, had grown close but separately. In spite of everything, they had not been friends, they had been anything but. Strangers, acquaintances, mutual aid, tools of codependency, the makers and breakers of each other. When they had gotten close to what one might call friends, it had been out of a yearning. A yearning for more that had never been addressed. Geralt had been right to not call them friends, because Jaskier was as close to a lover as he could have been. He cared for Geralt, calmed him, kept him upright when at times he felt he might fall. In return, Geralt treated him like he did all those he felt were too close, kept him at arm's length, kept him from ever knowing him- whilst all at once revealing everything about himself in the process. He protected Jaskier like he was just another human he had to keep from the midst of the fight, he acted like he didn’t care either way for his safety to reassure the idea. And then in the end he left him behind completely, left him alone on a cliff, to satisfy his desire to carry on pretending like their utter affection was an unrequited one. 

Because to admit that he cared, to admit that Jaskier was not only enough, but that he was more. That he was something he wanted, even needed, was to admit that he was ready to stop feeling so constantly in pain. And he had not been ready then. 

But he was ready now. 

Jaskier had always thought himself ready. But he had been naive. He had not known. He pushed too hard, loved too easy, involved himself in all the wrong places. Age had not yet aided him then as it had now. Time had not been so kind as to teach him the ways of his own whimsy. To admit back then that his affection for Geralt had terrified him would have been to admit his weakness. Would have been to show that he was not that playboy, that scoundrel he made himself out to be. That he desperately wanted to be needed somewhere. 

Now he did not need to be needed, did not need to be wanted. Did not rely on the opinion of others or depend on their desire for him. 

He was free to love and be loved as his own person, as an entity separate from his emotions. 

And that was where the two grew closest. Where Geralt needed to fall into his emotions, Jaskier needed to step out of them. And somewhere along the coastline, where the water met the sand, they two met as well. 

‘Are you going to stay?’ The words came out hoarse, choked, brimming with that water. 

‘I am.’ And the waves fell down on the shore with a gentle push. 

‘Until?’ 

Jaskier turned, an almost unconscious movement. His voice was less hoarse for that word, more practiced. He had said it in his dreams before. He knew the usual answer. But Geralt moved too, knowing it was time now. Moved his hand from the bard’s leg to his side, and then round to his back. 

‘Until you let me go.’

He pulled again, and Jaskier did not resist. He ached for the warmth that pressed up against him as he reached Geralt’s chest. 

‘That won’t be soon.’

‘I have time.’ 

The hug was intense, like two planets crashing into each other. It was all warmth, and tears, and the stiffness of not knowing quite where to put your hands. Geralt’s beard tickled and for the first time the witcher noticed Jaskier’s hair was long, pulled back into a ponytail tied with a ribbon. They lingered for too long, stayed too close, let the ache of cramps and blood deprived limbs set in. They had time, and they refused to waste a second of it. For they were not friends, and they had never been friends, and for the moment they were not anything more either. 

They were a beginning. The first line of a story. 

They were the semi colon to continue a sentence that otherwise could have been ended; the first winds of spring returning the leaves to the trees. 

They were little, and they were plentiful. Nothing and everything. 

Jaskier was lavender and oranges. And the scent was new, and not at all enchanting, and Geralt breathed it deep for fear of losing it. Until it filled his nose and stung his eyes and he too realised something wet fell over his cheek. But he was not crying, for he still had not learned to, and so the earth cried for him. The rain came down light and sparing, patterned against the roof of the gazebo and slipped in through the cracks. The professor hid his face from the wet, burying himself more into Geralt’s armour and pulling at his cloak to cover his hair. Geralt laughed and so did Jaskier, but still they did not move. 

They sat, letting the rain fall. Watched as it washed the dirt from their boots. Watched as it caught in the flowers. 

Forget-me-nots, Geralt noted.


End file.
